


Tale of the Archer and the Maid

by cheddarbiscuit



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Defeated Timeline AU, F/M, Impersonating royalty, It's the sealing war but with characters from Twilight Princess, Time Travel Shenanigans, rated because Purlo is... Problematic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheddarbiscuit/pseuds/cheddarbiscuit
Summary: Please forgive me for being so selfish I care about what happens to you.





	1. How Purlo Came to the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these character and I did not make any profit from this venture. I disavow any knowledge of it entirely. Who are you? What am I doing here?

Castletown—the idea of her, at least, had loomed over his journey for many shadowed weeks. Distance and daylight had done her whitewashed curtain wall many favors during his approach. The city had appeared to be a splendid beacon, despite all that he had heard of it. But once Purlo was within her walls? All he had heard proved to be true. Castletown was a royal city, even if the royal family had been dead for years and Ganondorf sat on the throne, it should have been a endless maze of vivacity and noise. But she felt like a dead end, a prison. The central square should have been a crossroads, but it felt like a drain, where the shuffling foot traffic slowed and circled. Folks with nowhere to go sat in the cooling mist of the fountain, and folks with places to be avoided leaving, circling the plaza endlessly, looking at the empty windows of closed shops, whispering to each other.

Ganondorf's unnaturally long reign had taken its toll. And its tithe. And its taxes. 

The quietness of the place was unbearable. Unease hung like a fog over the blue tiled roof-tops. It was hushed; all conversations were whispered. Every utterance was closely guarded, as if idle gossip was indistinguishable from treason. The beggars were afraid to beg, and the pickpockets were either absent entirely, or so damn good at their work that they stole his wallet, bought their daily bread and replaced it and all of his money and the shirt on his back before he could have managed to blink.

And that was unlikely.

Compared to this the rain-soaked hovels of Canary seemed pastoral, and most of the slums in his memories at least had a few peasants singing to ease the pain of poverty. On the main drag at least, there should have shouting merchants, buskers on every corner fighting to be seen and dodging guards that actually looked interested in keeping the rabble out, not a Bulblin war party that let him in for a few rupees. He should have had to twist the arms of at least five dirty-faced urchins trying to steal his wallet or his watch or one of his knives. Yet there were none. He had never felt a silence more pressing in his life, and he was a Hylian. There was no such thing as silence for a Hylian. In the quiet loneliness of travel, he could hear thunder miles away, the hiss of rain before anyone he could even see it in the clouds. He could hear snakes in the tall grass and he usually never had any trouble learning the latest gossip.

But here? He barely heard the whispers, people spoke so quietly.

Purlo did not like it here.

Because the one place with any sense of normalcy was the salt-of-the-earth bar.

And because the idea filled him with such horror, he would repeat it; the only place with any sense of order was the place filled with drunks.

Purlo was no stranger to drunks. Being a dyed-in-the-wool criminal, he had a few stains to hide, and one of those stains was a taste for alcohol, but these people were high on whiskey and beer. Those were for the hard-working and the upright. The farm hands, the weary soldiers, the questing adventurers, and the worse for his safety (even worse for his good looks!) the bounty hunters. He abhorred whiskey, it was a drink for thugs and ruffians and circus strong men. He would tolerate it, but his true love was wine and his mistress was dark rum. Still, the salt-of-the-earth did not drink wine, wine was for women. And rum was for pirates. They drank whiskey; because they were ruffians and thugs.

Yet here he was, drinking beer and scanning a wall of wanted posters hoping he would not see his face. He had thrown a dagger to the wind to determine his fate, and the dagger had decreed—Castletown. He had thrown it twice just to be sure, and twice it decreed—Castletown. Yet, there was nothing for him here, not as a thief, not as an actor, not as an entertainer. In a different timeline, he could have made a killing on this town, but now? No one had any desire for entertainment, least of all play rigged games.

Still, he would not have it be said that he was an unfair man. To shed a favorable light on the typical patron, most of the wanted posters had charges like robbery and treason crossed out and replaced with inspiration to us all and a gentleman and a scholar and getting all the free beer he wants.

Purlo's interest was piqued. The paper was still new, but the number of people wanted for treason—beg pardon, inspiration—drowned it. He tugged the paper from the wall. Horse stealing earned a man all the beer he could want, apparently. An empty promise, Purlo thought to himself as he searched for a tack to pin the wanted poster back up. The only man with horses worth stealing was Talon, and he was a brisk day's ride away from Castletown. He would have a posse here before the thief drained a glass and…

It was a wanted poster of him.

Purlo froze, wanted poster in one hand, tack in the other, poised to stick the point right between his eyes. He stared at the paper in stunned silence. His face was perfectly captured. He had seen pictographs less accurate. While he may not leave an illustrious legacy, he liked to think he had lead a long, interesting career. He had been so many things in his life. A singer, an acrobat, an actor, a pirate, a thief, a carney… And here he was reduced to a nameless horse-thief of twenty years with green eyes, dark hair and a mole on his chin.

"It's a beauty mark." Purlo hissed, "It's a beauty mark and I've never stolen a horse in my life."

He turned on his heel and faced the bar. A woman stood behind it, watching the patrons with a content smile on her face while she polished a glass. A white cat slept on the corner of the countertop. She was heavy-set, but she wore it very well. Her hair was a little red, but mostly brown, sorted into narrow braids. As he stormed over, she gave him a smile and opened her mouth to speak.

He slammed the wanted poster down on the table.

"I will not suffer this slander! I have done plenty of things in my life to merit a few charges, certainly, and only take pride in a scant few of my deeds, but I have never—never stolen a horse."

"Oh… Okay, darlin…?" She muttered, uncertain.

"There is not much to my life, but I am still reluctant to surrender this mortal coil! I do not partake in crimes that will see me to the gallows. I would deeply appreciate the same courtesy from everyone else."

Telma looked at him, she looked at the paper under his splayed fingers. She looked at him. She looked at the paper again. She pinched it between two fingers and tugged it from under his hand to give it a closer examination. Then she looked at him and gave him a closer examination. She frowned thoughtfully, at first, then she smiled big, so all her white teeth shone bright. Purlo stepped back. If there was not a countertop between them, she would have thrown her arms around him with a loud squeal of elation. But she could not. Instead she allowed herself a quiet squeal of elation, as she set the paper down so his face was hidden and very deliberately nudged it aside."Can I get ya another beer, honey?"

"I do not like beer and I have never stolen a horse." Telma stopped pouring the beer, Purlo prattled on, "I do not take living things. The next thing you know everyone's asking you to steal children and..."

Telma set down the half-full beer and handed him a bottle of spiced rum instead. A great noise came from the other side of the bar. Purlo turned to see an unfortunate looking man celebrating some trivial accomplishment. He was rugged, from his face to his heavy hands and thick arms. He would get a late start in the morning, judging from the abundance of empty bottles around him and the exuberant baritone singing of his companions, that much was certain. Purlo certainly envied his joy. He clenched his teeth in frustration, then he demanded, "Who has been propagating that... falsehood?"

"Now I promise you, it's not a lie, sugar." Telma replied, seriously as the accusation of horse-thieving. She uncorked the bottle for him and nudged it closer, setting it down on the wanted poster. She considered her words carefully, "Madame Fanadi said that man would come to town and he would steal a horse. Madame Fanadi is never wrong. Her predictions always come true."

"What, pray tell, were her exact words? I plan to retire someday. If these circumstances could lead to my untimely final scene at the gallows, I'd wish to be informed."

Telma tried to enlighten him, "You can think we're a lot of desperate saps clinging to her every word with blind faith because we've lost everything else, but…" She shook her head, "She told Ashei where she could find… Exactly what she was looking for, time and time again."

"Where is she?" Purlo demanded, "She's going to get me killed and she's never even met me!"

"I suppose you're right." Telma admitted. She pointed to the unfortunate looking man. "That fellow there's a rancher from Ordon Village. He'll come back to us a married man in a few months, and I'll finally get to meet the daughter of my best friend. Point I'm trying to make, stranger, is this is a happy day for me. I'm throwing a little party, and I've invited Fanadi over to tell his fortune, and I don't want you storming out of here and beating her up. Just sit tight, and you'll see her in a while, and if you're good, my dear sweet Amoto won't have to throw you out in the meantime."

She pointed, tactfully, to a Goron in the corner. Purlo settled down and reached for the bottle of spiced rum. It tasted of vanilla and ginger and the dark syrupy musk of molasses. He took out one of his metal flasks, the rugged, presentable one sewn into a case of hard leather. He drained it of the sharp gin within and filled it with the spiced rum. When that as done, he took out a flask etched with a cobra. And let the last drops of vinegar that had once been the worst (and only) vodka he had ever tasted splash onto the floor boards. Telma, sensing a pattern, put a second bottle of rum on the counter between them.

"Still, I'll honor my word, drink all you want. Rum's hard enough to get rid of with the crowd, help yourself."

Telma watched as he took out at five more flasks. She gave him a third bottle of rum. Purlo drained the last mouthful from the first bottle. It was a comforting, warming brew, and it was free. It would keep him in a contented daze for a whole week… or even two weeks. While he was filling his last flask (a truly priceless thing encrusted with pearls) the door opened again and a great cheer erupted from the celebration behind him.

"Here she is!" Telma exclaimed, abandoning her post behind the bar, "Fanadi, darling!"

Purlo turned and watched Telma skip to a heavy blonde woman with her hair in an elaborate coil. She was covered in jewels a trinkets that made his eyes gleam and his fingers itch. She was wrapped up in expensive silks. Purlo was not so eager to relieve her of those.

He tipped the bottle of rum back as the groom-to-be was helped forward. He beamed and swayed as his work-worn palm was presented to Fanadi. Fanadi looked at the man's hand, then at the man himself. Telma gave his brawny shoulders a squeeze. She gushed, "He's marrying Joan's daughter. He's marrying little Ilia!"

The raucous singing quieted into exited chuckling and congradulations. Telma giggled like a child as she studied the man's palm, hoping to see what Madame Fanadi could see. The woman smiled sweetly and a low noise cut through the hush of anticipation.  
Purlo scoffed. No one could tell such things from lines on a man's hand. Fanadi would feed him sweet, meaningless words of advice to warm him up to her high price. Purlo leaned back on the bar, if she was going to slaner his name, he was going to heckle her. He cleared his throat with the rum. It pricked and burned on the way down. Without a scrap of food in his gut, it ached like a pin in his side.

Madame Fanadi shook her head. Telma balked. The lucky man continued to grin stupidly as she closed his fingers to pat his upturned fist, "Your heart is in the right place, Fado. You would be good to her every day of your life, and she would honor you... but she would never be happy with you."

The unnerving silence that loomed over Castletown proper finally came to settle in Telma's bar.

Purlo knew he was not a man of honor, but he knew there were things not even he would stoop too. He would never steal from an orphans, he would never abuse the elderly, nor would he even consider mistreating animals (even dogs). Now he had found a new low to avoid; telling a drunk man he would not satisfy a woman. Fado pulled his hand back. The giddy gleam that flashed his his eyes and pulled at the corner of his mouth left at once. It was like his entire body pitched into absolute devastation. Telma stammered, "Fanadi was just joking, honey. We all know you'll make Ilia the happiest girl in the world."

Fanadi was strangely adamant, "I was not! She'd be miserable!"

"Fanadi!" Telma exclaimed, "Fanadi, that isn't funny! Auru, tell Fanadi how much Fado cares for her!"

"The world over!" Auru scolded Fanadi. Purlo watched him help a crumpled Fado to a chair and have another swig of sustaining beer. The young man was rattled and paled to the point of being unrecognizable. He looked like he had lost ten pounds. It was a strange twist to the narrative Purlo had seen many times before. Intrigued, he listened to Fanadi and Telma argue before he made his move.

"Fanadi, why would you do something like that?"

"What do you expect, Telma? Do you expect me to lie? To ruin my reputation?"

"Fado won't bring even the smallest glimmer of joy to Ilia? He won't make her life just a tiny bit better?"

"He's made it worse!" Fanadi shook her head. She raised her hand to her head as if she was running a fever, "I've seen it all already, and I thank the goddesses I already know she's going to survive. Poor girl, having to watch as all she knows and love is ..."

Purlo decided she was not worth listening too anymore. If she was going to be a fraud, she could have at least taken the time to be a nice fraud. He packed away his flasks. He was not about to leave behind free rum. If she was going to slander his name, he was going to see her ruined. That certainly struck him as fair. He crossed the bar to where Fado sat in a broken pile while Auru tried to lift his spirits with talk of how nice it would be to be married to a lass like Ilia.

Fado sat in cold inconsolability, his eyes glazed and unfocused, like he could see thousands of yards within his stein. Auru's heavy, callused hand gave Fado a fortifying shake. Fado was jostled, but emotionally unmoved. Auru tried to reason with him, "Destiny is malleable, Fado. Now that Fanadi's told you that you can't make the girl happy you can try something different, something that's sure to bring her around."

Fado's only plan of action was to drink very deeply and very slowly. Auru shook his head in exasperation and he passed Fanadi a dirty look. Purlo had his own plan, that would hopefully provide concrete, meaningful results. He waited for Fado to drop his mug back down. He waited a while. Fado seemed content to literally drown himself in his beer.

"The woman is a fraud." Purlo assured him loudly. He had gained the young man's ear. He jumped, his eyes focused on Purlo. He quieted his voice, "Watch me. I will go and ask her if my wife is remaining loyal to me and if my children are healthy."

Either the man was very simple, or he was not used to being so drunk the smell of it hung on his breath. He bathed Prulo in a fog of booze and scorn, "Oh, sure… Just let everyone know how your marriage is so great!"

"Tis a trick question." Purlo explained quickly, "I have no wife, and I certainly have no children, not that Fanadi knows this. I am new in town. No matter what she says, the answer will be wrong, you see?"

Fado was pacified. He nodded, and kept nodding to the way back to his beer. Purlo eased the glass back down, "And I can tell you the quickest way to a woman's heart is to cast aside your vices. A man who puts aside drinking shows an inner steadfastness that would help him stand against the allure of any temptation. The cornerstone to a marriage is loyalty. Any husband with this quality will have a satisfied wife."

Purlo knew this because he had ended plenty of marriages.

Fado considered it, "Yeah… Yeah, she would like that."

Purlo nudged the glass out of his reach. He returned to where Fanadi and Telma were arguing.

"... I do not expect one without the gift to understand."

"Well, your understanding is not gonna stop me from expecting one with the gift to be a little more generous. You could have broken the news a little more gently."

"Telma, when you've been around as long as I have, you learn there is no gentle way to break a man's heart."

"Oh-ho! Like you've got any experience with it!"

Madame Fanadi, thoroughly roasted, closed her mouth with a sudden huff. Purlo stifled a chuckle before her eyes fell on him. He presented himself with a little bow and a smile.

"Madame Fanadi, I'm a traveling man. I was wondering if you could enlighten me." He presented his hand to her, "Could you tell me, in my absence, is my wife loyal to me? Are my children healthy?"

He bit back a grin. He wondered which wild guess she would make. With a huff, She looked at him, her eyes narrowed and her heavy cheeks turned an irritated red. She did not even look at his hand before she shouted; "How can your wife be faithful to you? She's engaged to him!"

And then she pointed at Fado and Purlo's mouth dried. What little confidence the man had managed to gather around himself vanished completely. With a short cry he stood up, then he immediately plopped back down, too indisposed to start swinging. Purlo was glad. He had been punched many times, he did not wish to catch Fado's heavy hands. Telma gaped at him like he was something inhuman and unfathomable. Something terrible. He got the feeling she would rescind her offer for free rum.

Fanadi spoke as if the only tragedy in the world was that no one ever listened to her, "And you're meant to have five children, too, but you'd better hurry or you'll be cheated out of a son, though I don't doubt you won't adore the daughter you'd get instead."

Purlo closed his palm. He pulled his hand away, "You heard me say I wasn't married."

"No. You think I have no memories for faces? You're the man that's going to steal the horse." comfortingly, she took him by he arm. Her hands were cold, the rings she wore were freezing. Temla stood by, red faced and quivering, a biting insult on the tip of her tongue that she refused to let fly. "I expected you five days ago."

"What quarrel do you have with my life!?" Purlo wrenched his arm free of her grasp, "I am not here to steal a horse. I do not intend to steal a horse. I do not even know how to ride a horse!"

"You'll find you have a talent for it." Fanadi assured him. She took his arm again. "I need to remind you, of course, that West is they way to need to ride."

"What?!"

"Get out of my… My… Get out of my bar!" Telma spluttered. She pushed his shoulder, "That's fifty rupees for the rum, you homewrecker!"

Fanadi held fast. "No, no… He might as well stay."

"I'm leaving!" Purlo shouted over them. He pulled himself from Fanadi's grip and marched to the door. "I'm quit this place. I am through!"

The door swung open. Purlo came nose-to-nose with a handful of armored soldiers. The air froze in his lungs as the blond captain took a step back. He blinked quickly, his blue eyes lit up with recognition and disbelief, "It's the horse thief!" he exclaimed, "Men, it's the horse thief!"

"No!"

"Don't worry!" Fanadi abandoned him, "I foresaw this."

"You're right about that, Captain Segare!" Telma betrayed him, "His wanted poster is on the wall and he's stolen fifty rupees worth of spiced rum!"

Purlo pitched himself backwards, trying to build up a hasty defense, but the jolly bachelor party had become a wall of interested (dare he say vengeful?) spectators that did not give him any room to escape, "Gentlemen, Gentlemen, please! If I have stolen a horse, where is it? There is no horse out front, no horse within. Where is the horse I have stolen? You cannot arrest me for a crime I have not committed, and I assure you, I am not here to steal a horse, no matter what some fraud says. I passed the gates just this morning, I have been in this city less than a day!"

"Ganondorf himself foresaw that you'd steal a horse." The Captain reached for him.

Purlo did not let him touch him.

"Didn't you hear him!?" Fado exclaimed. "He's not here to steal a horse!"

Purlo was grateful Fado had come to help. Inebriated salvation was still salvation. Segare staggered as Fado fell—spilled was more appropriate—against him. His pulmed bycoket was knocked from his head as Fado grabbed hold of his red velvet cloak for balance.

"Hylia's blood," Captain Segare grunted, "how much have you had to drink?"

"Hear the man out!" Purlo begged, "He's the only one that sees reason!"

But Fado failed him; "He's here to ruin my marriage!"

"No!" Captain Segare gasped. It was patronizing, not like Fado noticed. With a smile he nudged Fado back onto his feet, his simple order masking a fit of giggles, "Kill—he he he..." the mask chipped, "Kill him."

Many years of life experience had gifted Purlo with invaluable knowledge; A broken bottle of alcohol, when paired with a spark, makes for a spectacular distraction. He rushed to the bar where half a bottle of rum still waited. His also knew that just outside Telma's bar, there was a stack of boxes that anyone limber could climb to access the roof. They were wooden boxes, and would take his little distraction from spectacular to very upsetting matter of utmost urgency. His fingers closed around the green glass.

He knew there were three gates out of the city, with the taller buildings closest to the south wall. He did not have to take the gate if he could climb over the wall. He also knew not to throw away any perfectly good knives. He did not need a knife—he needed his fire striker. He rushed the door. One guard, a spectacularly huge fellow that was well suited to it, stood in the way, and Purlo learned another valuable lesson; before you tackle a man, be certain he is not wearing full plate armor.

Stars danced in his eyes as Captain Segare grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him away from the door. Purlo hit him the face with the glass bottle. Rum and glass and blood splashed over both of them. Segare screamed. Still seeing spots, Purlo stabbed blindly with the glass bottle. He thought he got the man in the arm. Maybe the shoulder. He felt the glass halt against bone and Captain Segare let him go, howling. That was all he cared about. Fighting pain in his shoulder that Telma's rum helped to dull, Purlo crawled his way of the pile of men and metal. He would do without the fire and hope the guards were not as committed to killing him as he was to escaping.

He went for the crates, and scrambled up the wall to the rooftop. Segare was screaming to his men, "Shoot him! Kill him! He can't leave this city alive!"

Judging by the sound of the armor, they were hot on his heels. His feet slipped on the blue shingles on the roof. He nearly ran out of his sandals. He felt fingers slip past the skin of his ankle. He did not look back. He was fast. He had always been fast. He ran from rooftop to rooftop, jumping where he could, trying to put gaps between himself and the men that they did not have the skill or energy to jump. The sound of the clanking armor of his pursuers died away, a meter at first, two meters, then five. He glanced down. People were pointing at him. Smiling, if it was to believed. Castletown would speak of him in quiet whispers in the weeks to come.

He heard a whistle, then a click on the rooftop. An arrow clattered down the shingles. Another followed, narrowly missing his head. It stuck the house opposite him and stuck there. The quiet whispers became screams and the slow shuffling foot traffic became a desperate stampede searching for shelter. So much for the high road. He was an easy target for the marksmen on the walls. Purlo slid down the roof. The shingles left bruises on the way down. He rolled when he hit the ground to spare his knees and ankles any pain, and kept is eyes on the gate.

He heard the clatter or armor ahead of him, and he thought to himself that a lot of trouble could have been spared if Ganondorf had just ordered the city guard to cut him down when he had tried to enter the city this morning, but entertainers (even if they did moonlight as petty thieves) were fine men to make examples of, they were usually quick and lithe, and armed only with lockpicks and daggers, therefore easy to apprehend with sheer numbers and brute strength, which men like Ganondorf had on-hand at all times.

Purlo had only lockpicks and daggers. He needed an advantage, a small dark hole that looked to be a secret passage into the sewers would be ideal, the wagon of a well-respected merchant he could hide under would be better. All he saw was a horse, saddled and unattended.

Purlo gritted his teeth and told himself the only reason he was stealing the horse was because Madame Fanadi had flittered around telling everybody he was going to steal a horse. It was a shame he would never be able to return to this town. He would never be able to tell her it was her fault.

"Koyla!" A man shouted, "My horse! He's stealing Koyla!"

"Borrowing." Purlo drew his stiletto and cut the rope that tethered the horse to the back of the cart while the man. The man continued to protest over him, but Purlo did not hear him, "You have my word, I will leave him when I have put some distance between myself and this place. He will be less than a day away."

Purlo flicked the reigns and dug his heel into its sides. It screamed. It reared. It charged forward and by some miracle Purlo managed not to fall from its back as it tore through the gate. If they tried to close him in, he could not have seen it for the air rushing at his face. He could not breathe. He bowed his head and stood in the saddle to keep his balance as the horse ran. Fanadi had been right. He did have a talent for it.

Once he was free of the curtain wall, he fully intended to pull the horse to a stop and run from the city on foot, thinking that the horse's owner and Captain Segare would both be more likely to track the horse through the field and miss him entirely. They would find the horse safe and sound in greener pastures, and he would quit Hyrule, never to return.

Then he saw the Bulblins.

Now he could not stop. Again, his eyes searched for an advantage. He only saw the treeline. The horse's passage would be obvious through the thick trees, but the branches could hide him. The horse would cover his escape. He looked back. Fifteen minutes, maybe ten, they would be in firing distance. Twenty minutes, providing one of them was good at knots, they would be close enough to throw a rope around his neck and drag him across the field, leaving pieces of him for miles.

The horse, fortunately, seemed just as pleased to be stolen. Dirt flew every direction as its hooves tore up the ground. Purlo had given it permission to run to its heart content, and it was content to run at a dizzying pace. Purlo gripped the reins harder and looked back at the clear trail Kolya left.

The treeline pushed itself closer. The Bulbins would be on him by the time he reached it. Jumping from the horse would still be futile. Running the poor thing until it died would be even worse.

He heard an arrow. It hit the ground just short of him. Seven minutes. Seven minutes and he would be stuck full of so many arrows he would be dead before he hit the ground. The horse lurched forward with a frightened shout. Purlo thought it had been struck, but he barely had time to see it before the horse plunged headlong into the thickest cluster of tree it could find. Leaves whipped his face. Bushes and twigs were trampled, branches broke against its sides, but it did not slow. Purlo could not hear the rain of arrows for the sound of it all. He could not hear the sounds of their horns or their shouts or… He looked back.

They were gone.

Purlo pulled back on the reins before the horse ran itself to death. He pulled the horse about, his eyes searching the woods around him. He could not have covered more than a few meters into the treeline, but he could not see the field, only trees, marred by the horse's path. There was nothing. No one was there. The forest was quiet. The trees did not shift. The shadows did not move. Not even the wind seemed to reach this far into the trees. For the first time in his life, Purlo heard dead silence.

Then he breathed. The birds sang again. The breeze shifted the leaves.

And that is how Purlo came to the tree.


	2. Green Eyes

Purlo laughed.

It was all he could do. He threw his head back and let out a howling peel of mirth. The horse bustled under him uncomfortably, suddenly unsure if he liked this new rider or not. Was it a laugh? It felt like more of a scream as hands clenched into fists and his mouth gaped open. He leaned forward, pulling his arms around himself as he cackled. It was high-pitched and sounded more like a witch than himself.

He breathed. The fit subsided into a chuckle and ended with a sigh. He swung his leg over the side of the horse and dropped down into the grass. The cool green blades tickled the edges of his feet as he leaned against the horse's strong foreleg. He felt high, but he had not consumed nearly enough rum to be so ecstatic. With the last laugh, he raised a kiss to the sun, "A new star is born—and he shall outshine even you!"

He lifted himself up. He had secured immortality, he would be remembered in nameless infamy with whispered wonderment. The exhilaration cooled in his veins. His heartbeat stilled and the scratches on his face started to sting. His fingers fumbled with the buckle of the horse's bridle. The bit dropped from the horse's teeth into his waiting hand, "I've  _done it!_  I've well and truly done it. I—I've…"

 _He had stolen an entire horse!_  His blood froze. He jumped away from the horse and the bridle dropped to the ground. His fingers raked through his hair. It was tangled and matted. His voice quivered. His hands dropped. " _I have set the stage for my denouement._ "

The horse gently nudged his free hand. Then its nose pressed against his palm. What was it doing? It pushed his left side, then his right, teeth nipping at his clothes. It was searching for a treat.

"It's curtains for me!" Purlo insisted, "It's my final hour! The finest of messes and you—you..? Ah, well, of course you'd like a treat. You've done well. Good horse… Can I call you good horse? Or course I can. You're a horse."

He lifted the horse's head to scratch its cheek. Its ears flicked, and Purlo wondered what it meant. The horse noticed something. It moved his head with a sudden huff. Purlo turned. It was an apple tree. An apple would do them both a world of good. He led. The horse followed. He dropped the bit and bridle to the base of the trunk. The metal clinked and clattered before it all settled with a thud. Purlo stood on a strong root to pull a branch down. The apple pulled free with a quick snap and a rustle of leaves.

"Here." he held it out to the horse. The horse made a small noise of approval and it vanished in one bite.

Purlo plucked a second apple for himself. By the time he sat down with a weary sigh, the horse had already taken another apple from the lowest branch. "Really," he informed it tactfully, "I'm not a pet person. I am ill-equipped for commitments, but I suppose you could endear yourself to me soon enough. It's not like you would be hard to feed, and I  _do_ find myself needing a hasty escape from time to time. Whose horse  _are_  you, anyway?"

He heard a sound.

He thought it might have been the squeal of a mouse, but he heard the soft sound of skin hitting skin and deep, strained breathing. Someone else was sheltered here. Purlo turned his head, listening. He heard the sound of fabric scraping wood and disturbing earth to his right. He looked down. Hidden in the roots was a face. A girl's face. A  _pretty_  girl's face. His eyes shamelessly followed the arch of her brow to the curve of her cheek to her full lips, and he wished he had been gravely wounded. He wondered if the idea of nursing a man back to health appealed to her, because the idea of laying indisposed in her care for days unending certainly appealed to him.

But he could not waste away in bed. He had the will, certainly. He always had the will to lay in bed. He had found safety, but it was entirely temporary. He needed to make haste to the border and find security in solitude upon some mountain on the opposite side of the world until his final day. Haste meant stopping for nothing, however, not food and  _certainly_ not pleasure, which presented him with a dilemma; he could hunt on his own, and he knew what would kill him it he ate it, but it was so much faster to buy cured meats and dried fruits from the city, a chore he had neglected in Castletown due to a lack of rupees, poor harvests, and a slanderous soothsayer. The land here looked fertile enough, and she had come on foot. Her home could not be too far; surely they had a few rations to spare?

He smiled, perhaps a little too broadly, but noticed something that gave him pause. Her face was smeared with dirt, except for two clean tracks leading from her terror-filled eyes to the corners of her mouth. She had been crying—she had taken a tumble, perhaps, but no mere tumble would have sent her to trembling in a warren like a bunny. Was it just that she had heard him coming and panicked? True, any young lady worth her salt should run and hide at the very sight of someone like him, but he wanted to think there were other forces at play.

"Hey," he smiled. Her bright green eyes snapped to his face. He tried to sound soothing, but he was breathing to hard for that, "Don't be scared. You have nothing to fear."

She was going to find something, no matter what he said.

She retreated further into the darkness. Purlo moved to pull her out, but there were easier, and certainly more polite ways to coax a lady out of her boudoir. It was called  _manhandling_  for a reason, after all. Simple bribery would work just fine. He relaxed against the tree again, and with finesse and strength that he hoped would impress her, he broke the apple in two pieces.

She watched it carefully as his arm extended into the hole. She did not move at first. Neither did he. He heard her stomach growl, but she still refused to accept it. He supposed an apple was a pointless offering when she was hiding in an apple tree, but he would not take it back. It would be rude. Suddenly, she snatched it from his fingers. He let it go. She vanished. The only sign of her were soft crunching noises.

Purlo stretched his legs and crossed his ankles to eat in nervous silence while Kolya stole fruit, seeds and all, from the low-hanging branches. He wondered what trouble the girl had found herself in. If he could not languish mortally wounded in her care, the least he could do was to see what he could do to ease her burdens, and to what ends she would be willing to repay the favor. He could think of plenty to suggest, but of course he would never dare impose.

But he had larger concerns, food he could barter and beg for; he could leave the horse in her care and hope no one accused her of being his partner in crime while he spent a few sleepless nights running on foot, but he could make it much further if she lied for him, sent them eastward while he traveled south. She knew he was a horse thief; he had practically shouted it. It would be difficult to get her to lie to save his skin when telling the truth would get her an ample reward. He had to endear himself to her so fiercely gold could not outweigh his safety, or the council of her (probably wiser) family.

Rum always helped girls like him. He reached for the metal flask at his hip. He unlatched the cap and pushed it into the dirt before the girl's hiding place. He kept a close eye on it. Eventually the ravenous crunching stopped, but her hand never emerged to take it away. Purlo waited, the sweet tang of the apple hung in his mouth and he considered taking it away to drink himself, but he had other flasks, and she would not trust him if he was not a gentleman.

The dear girl finished her apple and did not move. Was she ignoring him, hoping he would leave her in peace? Did she not understand that these things were gifts and he  _wanted_  her to take it? Purlo continued to wait. A breeze from the west ruffled his hair and cooled his skin. The leaves rustled. He heard a snake slip by and the birds called a warning to each other. The horse ate its way around the tree.

And after much suspense, the dear girl spoke, "It's poisoned."

And it was a baseless accusation!? The very idea! Did she just think he ran around killing in cold blood? This is why he never stole horses! You steal  _one horse_ and suddenly you are depraved beyond all reason. "What!? Why would I offer you poison?"

Her voice quivered; "Because I know you're a horse thief."

"Dear girl," he snatched the flask up and drained it. He would regret downing it all so quickly in precisely forty three minutes, but she needed to see him drain it. When it was empty to the last he turned it upside down and let the last few drops fall into the dirt in front of her hiding place, "The entirety of Castletown knows I am a horse thief. The wanted poster was in the bar before even  _I_  knew I would be guilty of such malfeasance."

The girl was silent. He wanted her to ask, but she did not. It was not for a lack of curiosity. Her eyebrows pinched. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips moved to ask, but she wanted to be rid of him. He would have loved to enthrall her with the tale. Or rather, he wanted her to  _want_ him to enthrall her with the tale, as embellished as he could make it. Still, she had  _started_  to ask. That was a good sign.

"I do not wish to kill you," he assured her, "You've done me no harm."

He took out a second flask and put it in the same place. She stared at it, probably considering whether or not his blustering had all been a ruse to give her a flask that really  _was_  poisoned. She reached up. She changed her mind. Her big green eyes turned back to him, back to his hands. What did she think, that he was going to grab her when she reached for it? Drag her out screaming to sate his lust and ensure her silence?

He had never been so tempted and so insulted at the same time. He was a better man than that, but he suspected she would not believe him if he said so. He folded his arms, tucking his fingers against his sides. He would have tied them in a knot if he could. He met her gaze. Her eyes dropped to his crossed arms. Without looking to the flask, her hand started to creep forward. He pretended not to notice it.

He watched her watch his folded arms, and he wondered what the world had done to the poor thing, and if he could not fix it, could he convince her to run away with him? She could not tell anyone which way he went if he spirited her off, too, and if he had a pair of big green eyes hovering by his shoulder all the time, he might exercise enough prudence to live a little longer. And she was such a wretched, malnourished thing, she would earn enough for two day's worth of bread sitting silently on a temple's steps, looking reproachfully at anyone who passed, while he did the hard work of busking and purse-cutting a safe two blocks away, and it would be nice to have someone to teach his secrets to. A frail, sickly little sister would make a perfect sob story for the next time someone accused him of being a cheating at cards.

The things he wanted to do while staring into those eyes.

Quick as a wink, her arm vanished into the safe darkness, taking his flask with it. Purlo jumped, but was careful not to make a sound. He waited and listened. She unscrewed the cap. She contemplated her choices.

He heard rum splashing down on the loose dirt.

Close enough.

She returned the flask to him, "Thank you."

"My pleasure, dear girl." and his daydream slipped further away. He sighed through his nose and begged it to stay a while longer. She would not take leave of her troubles if she did not trust him, but she was right, he did have his own skin to worry about. He could not begrudge her distrust. A girl's heart was delicate already; an uphill battle in the best case. He seemed to be fighting his way up an active volcano.

What  _better_  way did he have to earn her favor? It was nearing evening mealtime; the smell of roasting game would be more likely to draw her out than a raw apple or rum, and the smoke of a good fire would chase away the mosquitoes that were sure to come with the cooling breeze. He heard plenty of birds in the trees, and there were surely rabbits to spare in the woods, but he suspected that she might be fond of innocent birds and rabbits, and would not like to watch him butcher one. A boar would be a greater threat to her family's garden, and an easier target, but he did not have the knowledge to square that much meat away.

"Would you like a proper meal?"

She did not answer.

But her stomach growled.

" _That does not mean I am going to eat."_ She retorted before he could reply.

Purlo frowned solemnly to hide a fit of giggles. He knew he had found a valuable ally, but he disliked the idea of starving her out. A few magic tricks could provide a fine distraction from any distress. He searched himself for his deck of cards. The backs were stamped with black designs so complex and distracting no one had ever noticed he had marked them. Not yet. The cards were made of stiff vellum, waxy to the touch but flexible, and they glided in his fingers like a breeze, perfect for street corner magic and smoke-room poker. He shuffled them and waited for the noise to inspire enough curiosity that she would appear again. She staunchly refused. He fanned the cards out and held them where she could see them, "Pick a card?"

"No."

He took the fan away and started to deal her a winning hand for a game of Find-the-Lady, "Perhaps a game?"

"No."

He hoped she knew even less than him about tarot; "I could read your fortune."

"Do you foresee yourself leaving?"

He had put her at ease enough to give him sass. Success!

He straightened his playing cards properly before slipping them back into their leather case. What else did he have? Bigger problems, certainly. Was it worth laying siege to one girl when he had a horde of Bulblins on his tail? If she was terrified of him, how horrified would she be when  _they_  rode up and strung him from the branches above. And certainly  _he_  would not do anything ungentlemanly to her, not with out her own cooperation, but he could not say the same of them. When madness takes a mob, they felt justified in anything and were blind to reason completely. They would hang her beside him when they were done.

He looked up. It was too peaceful for thoughts like that, and he never would have noticed her. He would flee, she would bury herself in her cloister. He had no desire to get back on that horse. How had he managed to incur the ire of the one fortune teller in the world that could actually predict the future? Why had the goddesses chosen him to be their jester?

And how had he gotten here? He knew magic when it bit him on the nose; he had been spirited away and dropped down somewhere else, but how? If it was him, he had no idea where it could have come from. He could only do a few parlor tricks, conjure a star or two. He could not move himself and a whole horse into the heart of the woodlands of… Where? He could hardly see the sun for the green canopy above him, but it still looked to be around three in the afternoon, and the same height in the sky, so he was near the same longitude and latitude… At least, as near as he could tell without a sextant and a good view of the horizon.

He looked to Kolya, his long neck stretched and he plucked another apple from the tree. He did not  _look_  like a magic horse, but Purlo was not going to disregard the idea. If stones could shift time, if bellows could produce gales, if gauntlets could give a man the power to lift obelisks; a horse could probably bend the fabric of the world itself. If such a thing was true, it was a very nice thing to acquire.

There was also the girl, in dire need of aid and vehemently attached to her tree. He knew plenty of old stories of spirits with the appearance of children that ran between the trees, soft as a whisper that befuddled travelers with chatter and laughter and fairy lights, luring them into the woods to never been seen again. If he were to imagine a child of the forest, green eyed, dirty faced and small enough to hide in a hollow would certainly be it. But she seemed hesitant to trust him, and her fear was genuine, she was not playing some joke. And even still, if one was in trouble, surely they would not summon someone  _else_  in trouble to help?

He listened. He heard only birds, the horse, and the ticking of his own clock. No Bulblins. No laughing Goddesses, either. He was no wounded gazelle, but he  _could_  be classified as a lost dog. "I've no place to be, no place to go—"

She cut him off at once, "D—don't get the idea you can come with me.  _You can't_."

"But you are not lost, it only makes sense for me to follow you."

"No. You may not follow me."

"How will I get my bearings if I cannot use the nearest village to orient myself?"

"I am not going to…" she stopped herself, her voice shifted, "I will tell you the way, just go and don't tell anyone you saw me here."

Such insistence made him burn with curiosity. She had gotten here on foot, so  _home_  could not be more than a day away; and if it  _was_ a promise of safety, she would not have chosen to hide in a tree. She would have made her way to it at once. She did not. She was  _avoiding_  home. She would continue to avoid home, and she wished to stay hidden just as much as him. Ungentleman Caller? Tyrannical Father? Overbearing Mother? Something on her own soil had chased her out, that was certain.

He shifted so he was on his knees before her hiding place. He stooped down to try and meet her eye, "Perhaps the offer is improper, but if you've no desire to see home again, you are more than welcome to accompany me. With a horse like Kolya we can get as far as we like, even if he is stolen."

"A—anywhere?" She eased herself closer, he could tell from the sound of her voice and the new light in her eyes she was considering it, even slightly. Horses. Far away places. He was making progress. She even risked putting a hand near him, "A—anywhere? Anywhere at all?"

"Not Castletown. I will be hanged if we go there, but there's nothing for you there, anyway. You don't have to go home… Or… or we can walk right past it with our heads held high, in defiance of them all. We can go anywhere."

She started to smile. Her eyes glowed like a lantern, and he caught a glimpse of her teeth as the dry dirt that had stuck to her face started to crack, but then she stopped. He could almost  _see_  the blood run cold in her veins as the light left her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She jerked her hand away like she had set it on a hot stove, "You don't want to help me."

"I will."

"But that isn't what you  _want,_ is it?"

With a chip on her shoulder like that,  _Ungentleman Caller_  seemed more plausible than  _Rotten Parents_. Purlo put a distance between them again. He did not patronize her, tell her she was a smart girl or dismiss what she had said. He paid her the kindness of keeping his mouth shut. The fewer words he said now, the fewer words he could scramble.

"Go southwest." The girl did her best to vanish, but he had a clearer view of her now. She sat back into the dirt, "You will find a trail, go north and you will find a stream, go south and you will find Ordon village. The Bulblins probably won't let you in, and they'd accuse you of stealing the horse even if it  _was_  yours. They might ask if you've seen me. No… they  _will_  ask if you've seen me. Don't tell them unless they threaten to kill you, because they will kill you."

"Bulblins?"

The girl bristled, "They're lurking around every village. Ganondorf has them everywhere."

Purlo did not bother to tell her that was not the case. If she did not know, she did not need to learn that moment. He had seen plenty Hylian towns, and Bulblins were not surrounding them. They were not even  _near_  them. They stuck to the fields, camping at crossroads and asking for tolls of ale and provisions, taking rupees or gold if you had nothing else, in exchange for things like  _getting to keep that pretty face_ , and  _not sliding into Castletown in a river of your own blood,_ and other little unpleasantries, if you were a lone  _man_. If you were a lone girl? Purlo did not envy the poor thing.

He knew Blins were not a bad people. He knew them as accommodating and industrious, the kind of folk who would drag you cold and half—dead from the briny deep and had stubbornly refused to let you go gently into that dark night. Bokoblins were responsible for progress in metalworking, stone-masonry, and animal husbandry. Some of the strongest fortresses were made with Moblin hands. Bulblins themselves were famed shipbuilders, if not for them, even the spice merchants from Fushin would still be sailing in shallow dug—out canoes.

But the job of bullying and looting to your heart's content in the name of the crown attracted a certain kind of... unkindness. Purlo knew that was true, too, and she did not sound like she was in the mood for a history lesson. Not if the aggressive fellow in question was a  _Bulblin._ "Horrid, I'm sure."

"Horrid." she echoed.

He could answer the question another day, but it still tugged at the back of his mind; why was her particular little hamlet of such importance? Did they have gold there? Was the land rich in sulfur or coal? Black powder, even the components for it, would be a closely guarded resource for a man of Ganondorf's tastes. Armies required food as well as munitions, did they grow wheat for his armies? That, too, would be a closely guarded resource.

Or had she herself committed some offense? It seemed a little strange, what could  _she_  be guilty of? Nothing he would hold her responsible for.

"When your father demands to know where you are, what should I tell him? When I hear your mother calling into the darkness for you, what should I say?"

The question left her shaken, but she showed no signs to guilt or fear. She retreated into herself, wrapping her arms around her middle and curling up, as if he had stabbed her instead of asking a question. Eventually, she did speak, "You won't hear my mother. She is dead. My father will not demand to know where I am. He won't worry for at least a day. If you're out of town by then, how will he ask you?"

How would he, indeed?

"Will you make your way to the river? I could join you there. I would be an extra set of hands, a hunting bow and a fire striker at your disposal," He eased himself closer, extended his hand again, careful not to reach too far. He wanted to tell her that he had been there. Where ever she was, he had been there and he had never had anyone to help him. There had been no one he could trust, no one who cared. But he was a strange man with a stolen horse and she was smart not to believe him, so he steeled himself and did not breathe a word of it. "Water always leads to cities, I wouldn't even need to go to your home. We can camp at the river, and follow it to our fortunes a first light."

One night of sleeping on the ground ( _next to him, to boot!_ ) and she would be all to willing to return to the comfort of her home, and if not he would bargain and coax her into returning for one final farewell to her father. If she refused even that, he would know there was really no turning back for her, and if she accepted, he would spend the return trip getting her so overcome with emotion she would decide to stay in the loving embrace of her kin, and her kin would be so pleased they would cover his escape from this forsaken country. He would escort her to the ends of the earth if she was willing to flee to them, but he did not want to take her away when her heart was where he had found her. Not when she could hang if he was caught.

She reconsidered his offer. It was the greatest gift he had ever received.

Her eyes were mapping out some invisible path and she plotted her future, her teeth baring down on her lower lip in anticipation, then her eyebrows pinched. Anticipation gave way to uncertainty and Purlo could only watch in defeat as distrust crept back into her mind like a vine that grew and grew and choked the light in her eyes. Again, she shook her head, "What is the benefit to you?"

If the situation did not require such delicacy, he would have given her a sweeping bow, a kiss on the hand and the foolish declaration of,  _a beautiful lady is always a benefit._  But she was in no mood for flattery.

"Peace of mind," he told her, "You've been running scared, you've been crying. I can't just leave you here if you want to leave. Not when I can take you."

Her face was hard to read for a moment, barely any longer than a heartbeat, then her big green eyes fixed on him, daring him to lie to her, "You… You won't touch me?"

He hated to make a vow like that. He dropped his hand and hoped she would change her mind, "I won't touch you."

She made her choice. Purlo backed away as her arms reached out, grabbing hold of the roots that tangled around the dirt before her. With a small squeak of effort she pulled herself up, her elbows digging into the ground as her head and shoulders appeared. Her hair was short and tangled, it looked as though she only had her fingers to comb it through. She was thin, so thin he could see bone moving under her skin, not muscle. Her shirt was torn to the point of indecency, barely hanging onto her at the right shoulder. There was a bruise on her side that had just begun to darken. The scratches on her arms and legs had stopped bleeding, but they were still red, and needed to be cleaned before they became infected.

Purlo narrowed his eyes. He could rule out a fright, and she had not taken a tumble. Tumbles snagged clothes and scuffed elbows, but they did not rip seams or leave an anklet of bruising.  _People_  did that. Someone had tried to rough her up. If Purlo had lead a more comfortable life, he would be astounded at the very idea that anyone could treat a lady so poorly, but he knew very well how awful things could be.

She gathered herself up, holding her tunic in place at her shoulder and at her side. She held her head high as she turned to face him, daring him to even  _think_  about breaking his promise, which, regretfully, he would do at least once an hour until his hours were spent, "My name is Ilia, sir, and you will take me to my grandmother in Arcadia."

The Goddesses were doing more than laughing at him.

 _Ilia._ He kept the reaction out of his face, but it was enough to shake his lack of faith. Not the  _very same_  Ilia? The Ilia that meant the terrifying prospect of  _five children_?  _Fado's_  Ilia? How had Fanadi known? How could she have known? She was no fortune teller—she could manipulate time itself.

 _Arcadia._ The one place he had vowed he would never set foot in again! Millions of white-haired old women in hundreds of places and  _she_  wanted to meet one in Arcadia! He started to shake his head, lips poised to shoot her down, but he stopped himself. If he broke  _that_  word, she would assume that all other promises were just as fragile, and run from him. She would be entirely justified, too. She had been very difficult to coax out of hiding once, it would be impossible a second time, if he even managed to find her.

And;  _FUCK._ A word he thought he had banished from his vocabulary ages ago, but it forced itself back with avengeance. He tried very hard to keep any strong emotions out of his face.

"Sir?" he echoed with a chuckle to stifle his indignation at the deepest cut of all. As if he were some hunched over invalid, "Have I been knighted? Have I gone gray? I'm barely done being nineteen. No need for such little formalities."

Ilia gave him a sidelong glance and turned to the southwest. He started to call for the horse, but the horse followed her without any order. Purlo scooped up the bit and bridle from the roots and hurried to her side again. He would have to trick her into returning home. He had a few years on her—had a few inches on her, too. He could get her back to her village whether she liked it or not.

Of course, if he  _forced_  her home, there were plenty of drawbacks; her father might give him all the food he liked and be pleased as a peach to lie for him, but  _she_  would rat him out at once, and who would a vigilante posse trust, a man saying he had politely asked for provisions, surrendered the horse to try to mend the situation and traveled west without incident, or the girl screaming he had assaulted her in the middle of the forest, ditched the horse to conceal his trail, left her to the mercy of a lustful Bulblin, and fled east?

A Bulblin, jealous that she chose a man with a career that was more stable that pillage over him, would strike at her for wounded pride, to be sure, but  _Fado's_  seemed to believe, deep down, that Ilia had not been so thrilled with him. Fado, of course, was still in Castletown, and could not have been the one to lay hands on her. However, her father might do the same in the name of tarnished honor if she tried to back out of a marriage. Purlo could not be certain; he did not know the man. He would not forgive himself if he left her there, and he would have to take her with him with no food for the road, and her loathing him every step of the journey (as opposed to now, when she refused to trust him; tolerable, but fixable). Her father and her fiance would add  _abduction_  to the list of reasons to hang him, and have every desire in the world to tell the posse on his tail were  _exactly_  they might go. He might still have to contend with a jealous Bulblin.

He should not be rash; he just needed more answers. He would think of a better way than throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her back before morning. "Where does this river lead?"

"A lake in Catalia." she said, "According to my uncle."

He used to live in a town next to a lake in Catalia. Strange thing was… It was the  _only_  lake he knew of in Catalia, the only lake of note. Certainly, there were shallow ponds in forests but Lake Floria was the only proper lake in Catalia he knew of, but Catalia did not have a single stretch of land bordering Lanayru. It bordered  _Faron_  Province, and the river that fed it was a half mile wide, slow enough a single man with strong arms could row a loaded longboat upstream without so much as a grunt.

"Canary?"

She might have stumbled. She might be shocked he knew the name, "Y-yes."

He busied his hands with untangling the horse's reigns and did not say another word. His sordid history was far less important than geography. She thought they were in Faron, probably because she lived in Faron, he thought they were in Lanayru—but if he was still in Lanayru, there would be a horde of Bulblins at his back. It did seem a little more plausible some strange magic had moved him from one place to the next, rather than moved the two of them from separate places to the same tree.

Then again (and he did hate to differ to that slanderous soothsayer!) she had been strangely insistent about Ilia's ill fortune, and the dear girl had  _clearly_ met will ill fortune. He could… not discount anything. But what were the odds that  _two_  separate enchantments would bring them to the same tree?

Purlo glanced back;  _had it been the tree?_

He could hardly tell which tree it had been, it was so picked clean of apples. The forest folded around it, hiding the last few apples from view. If it  _had_  been the tree, it must have regretted it when it fell prey to Kolya's appetite, and certainly it should learn to speak up. He shook his head. A tree! Of all things to give credit to!

He kept these conclusions to himself; it did not matter to him if they were lost or not. The more lost they were the better, in his opinion. He had maps, he knew how to use a clock as a compass, and he could climb a tree to get a good view of the stars. She'd be desperate for home after a few seconds of uncertainty, and how impressed and indebted she would feel if he managed to get them  _un_ lost?


	3. Change of Heart

He had to admire her commitment. Ten minutes of walking with not a trail in sight and she remained as stoic as any general. She did not slow or falter. She kept her eyes ahead, her feet were steady on ground that must have been unfamiliar. Purlo continued to keep himself occupied with untangling the horse’s reins to fight the urge to snake an arm around her shoulders, reach into his bag of holding and keep relentlessly shoving gifts into her hands until she smiled.

He sized her up out of the corner of his eye. She was young, so she would not like mature things, though she probably liked dull, practical, useful things. Tools for the farm and the kitchen, things to make her unfortunate peasant life easier. Purlo had, personally, always disliked giving something as dull as a tool to a lady. Conversely, he had always admired the type of lady that liked  _ receiving  _ tools. They were practical, stable, down to earth—all the things he knew he needed, but he had never wanted. She might appreciate a rarity or two. Or perhaps something for her hobbies, if she had any  _ besides _ running blindly through the woods. It might bring a twinkle to her eyes to hold something fancy in her hands, or something pretty and decorative, things he surrounded himself with in spades.

Ilia’s hand came to rest at Kolya’s neck. Her fingers curled into the tangled red mane and her shoulders tensed. Purlo pretended not to notice. He forced the little grin playing at the corner of his mouth down and whipped the reins through the bridle, undoing just a little more of the impossible knot.

He staggered. There was the rum.

When he righted himself, he was fixed in her big green eyes. Her lip quivered. Her eyebrows knitted. Her voice trembled, “ _ I’m lost _ .”

Purlo had to rely on years— _ years! _ —of acting expertise, “Oh?”

She looked ahead, “I’ve covered every inch of this forest. I know it like the back of my hand. I can’t be lost.”

Purlo politely neglected to mention his own story. He did not want to be accused of weaving a tall tale. He bit down as hard as he could on his upper lip without screaming to try and anchor down a wild grin. Ilia shook her head and continued, “I’m just… shaken.”

But there was no trail to be found, and no river leading to any lake in Catalia. Purlo let her wander stubbornly in the same direction until the reins were free of the bit and bridle. He coiled them up and tucked them in his belt for safekeeping. Let the girl walk until she dropped. He would be there to catch her anyway, and he suspected he would have a hard time convincing her to stop; he would not have to try when she was too tired to continue.

Eventually, she found a spring that quietly slipped from a crack in a limestone ledge, then pooled and swirled in a deep basin of smooth rocks before it drained out over the face of a stone bluff and splashed into the surrounding mud. It was clear, not a speck of floating dirt or a single fish. Ilia did not move, but the horse walked right up to it and drank greedily. If Kolya though nothing was amiss, nothing was, regardless of what her intuition told her. Purlo moved down to the bluff where the water spilled over and splashed into a puddle of mud. He knelt down uncomfortably and untied his cuffs. It was cold enough to whisk the red stains away, leaving only pale brown spots, and did not get old blood in the clear water upstream.

“This… This isn’t what I was talking about.” 

“It’s water. Take what you can.” he stood up, rolling the wet fabric up to his elbows, and pulling the drawstrings tight to keep them in place. It was bearable that way. He would rather have wet cuffs than soiled. He picked his way around to the opposite side, looking for a level, dry spot to sleep that night. When he joined her again, she had listened to him. Her hands and mouth were dripping wet, but clean, and it looked to him like her mood had lifted. He knelt down, but did not drink yet, “Perhaps you haven’t covered  _ every _ inch?”

She considered it. She cupped her hands under the stream of water again and waited until it was spilling over her fingers before she drank. She let the last of it splash over her face and drip down to her shoulders, the tangled tips of her hair clung to her neck and her white tunic went from tattered to transparent. She stayed there, fingers pressed over her eyes, letting the water cool her neck and arms. Perhaps she was crying.

He was sure he should not be looking.

He splashed water on his face. The shallow cuts burned and the water dripped onto his knees. He drank his fill, ran his wet fingers through his hair to keep the black curls out of his eyes. The water dripped down his forehead and cooled him quickly as he watched a Wood Pigeon flutter and hop between the trees. He would need to sober up before he started shooting things. He was sober enough to get a fire going, at least. Ilia’s hands dropped. Her eyes were red, her lip trembled.

And then it stopped.

He had to teach her to play poker when she was in a better mood. He would make a killing. For now he just tried, and failed, not to watch her bathe her feet in the water. The dirt drifted away and he noticed her hand ball into a fist on the rocks. Her eyes squeezed shut. She did not let herself cry. She leaned forward to examine the sole of her foot, and picked at a splinter. She splashed water over her scrapes. Her torn tunic slipped and Purlo whipped his head around before he saw anything, his fingers flying to the ties that held his wool vest in place at his neck.

He thought to himself that he would give her the vest, but what would that solve? It was completely open in the front, and it was made of wool, the second most uncomfortable fabric to have against bare skin. He let it drop across his leg. At the risk of scaring her off, he pulled his shirt off as quick as he could and thrust it back to her, “Put this on. I should have offered it sooner.”

She did not leave him hanging that time. She hesitated, but not for long. Maybe she was distracted by the definition of his shoulders. Thieving was great for muscle tone. It might also be the scars on his back. She did not say, and she did not let herself stay distracted for long, much, to his disappointment. She tugged the shirt free of his hand and busied herself with changing. Purlo listened the the sound of fabric rustling behind him and tried very hard  _ not _ to think about what he would see if he turned around.

“Thank you.” she said when it was quiet again.

“Just wish I had a clean one for you.” he lied. He did, actually. He did not want her to  _ know _ he had a clean one tucked away. She would wonder where he kept it, and she would turn those beautiful eyes to him and he knew he would not be able to  _ lie _ to those eyes. So he would have to answer,  _ in my bag of holding, my pretty one _ . Then she would ask what  _ else _ he had in there and he would have to answer, _ plenty of things that could make our little trip quite cozy. _

But he did not want her to  _ know _ she was in for a luxurious excursion with all needs provided for. He wanted her to think she was in for a harsh trip that she was unprepared for, so her first thought in the morning would be of her soft bed and the homefire burning. He put his vest back on and glanced back. She was looking at him. His back, actually. He should have left it off. With a mischievous grin she did not see, he stood up and stretched, hoping it caught her attention, “I’ll... get started on that fire now.”

He left. He did not need to look back to know what she did. He heard her get up in the grass and watch him go. He reached up and broke a small branch to mark his trail. She kept watching. Was she thinking of following him, or making a hasty escape? He would know soon enough. He was able to hear her better than she was able to hear him. He did not hear her leave.

He reached up to break another branch. An armful of firewood, a wood pigeon would be plenty for the two of them, or at least enough to tide them over. He could always kill another one. He was tempted to bring back  _ ten _ to show her he was, failing everything else, handy with a bow, but he remembered a time  _ he _ was that skinny. Feeding her too much would only make her sick.

Besides, he would not make her homesick by  _ impressing _ her.

He focused on gathering firewood first, no point leaving a fresh kill to rot while he spent daylight looking wood. He thought of how she should try to present himself. She was in dire need of a dashing hero, a knight in shining armor, but she did not seem to keen on the idea. She  _ also _ did not seem keen on the idea of an incorrigible rogue, either. He supposed he could always be himself, but  _ he _ did not even like himself; how could he expect her to like him?

He had to start with a name. He could not have her calling him the name of the known horse-thief. He had to think of something else, and whatever  _ he  _ was would slowly form. Method acting. He had always disliked it before, but  _ his life _ was not in peril before.

He came back with the armful of firewood. He checked on the horse. The horse was there, unsaddled and enjoying a roll in the grass. He checked for Ilia. She was gone. He tripped over the saddle while he was searching for her. He staggered and chuckled as he set the firewood down in the ring of stones. He hoped this was not a well-known campsite, not a popular spot for thieves and Bulblins. He had no plans, but he would hate the intrusion.

He scanned the clearing again as he looked for Ilia, snapping small twigs from the larger branches to make a bundle of kindling. Had she wandered off? Or was she hiding?

“Ilia?”

Nothing.

Purlo frowned. Now, he knew very well that the appropriateness of the word  _ princess _ was inversely related to the girl’s age, a factor which  _ could _ be negated by the length of time she had been known. At fifteen (by his reckoning), and with only a few hours together, it would be a wildly offensive, and Ilia was  _ not _ the type to tolerate that kind of tomfoolery. That was the point. He cupped his hands around his mouth, leaned back, and shouted, “ _ Princess!?” _

He waited for her to spring from her hiding place damning him to burn in Din’s Fire until his soul was purged of his insolence.

_ Nothing. _

He did not go too far in search of game. If she was out in the woods, he did not want to shoot her by accident. He would much rather know  _ precisely _ where she was when he was hunting. He would talk to her about it later, but in the meantime, he kept his ears open for her as he knocked and arrow in his bow and scanned the trees for signs of movement. 

He thought more about the puzzle of his new name. Something a little more dignified, perhaps with a proper last name. Timothy…  _ Ingel _ , maybe? No. The sound of it made me blanch. So  _ conventional! _ It would never do. He needed something that inspired a sense of security for the hard times ahead. He heard wings flutter in the trees, and watched as a bird ambled from branch to branch. He crouched down to steady himself and get a better view of the bird as its head moved. It suspected nothing.

It never had the chance.

“Archer.” he picked himself up, “Tennant. I wander the world in search of the one thing that will fill the bottomless void… Wait. No. I do that anyway.”

He picked the dead bird up, testing new lies, “I come from a farming community in Catalia. My parents were brewers before they died of a plague and I have never worked as a whore. My father taught me to hunt when I was seven. He always praised me for my marksmanship. He taught me to turn tendon into bowstring and I crafted my first arrow for him when I was four. It was horrible, but he was beaming with pride. My mother was blonde. Her eyes were the same striking green as yours.” he shook his head, too much; comparing a lady to your mother was never a good idea. Still, he smiled and pulled the arrow out of the bird’s neck, one more lie could not hurt; “I am not wanted for murder in Arcadia.”

The bird was a dead weight is hand, muscles twitching in defiance of its mortality. Purlo turned back to the camp. He set the pigeon down on one of the stups to keep it away from ants and out of the dirt while he reached into his bag and searched for his firestriker. His hand disappeared up to his elbow until he found it. The fire smoked and Purlo searched the stash of firewood for sticks he could skewer the bird on to roast it. He whittled them down with a knife (not the knife he used to defend himself) and heated the blade over the open flame until it was searing hot. It was the only way he had to clean it.

By the time he was done butchering the unfortunate creature, Ilia had returned. She fussed over something at the water’s edge. Purlo focused on his work, forcing the rough wooden skewer through the breast meat and sticking it it into the dry mix of ash and dirt in a gap between the stones. When there were hot coals, he would scrape them closer. The thighs would need the more intense heat to cook properly. 

He snuck a glance at Ilia when she came to the fireside. The sight of her in his shirt did  _ wonders _ for his morale. She sat down across from him and set a sack of things down. He wondered where she had gotten it until he recognized the whitework embroidery. Poor girl, to lose hours of painstaking work in the blink of an eye.

“I never asked your name.” she said to him, but he never would have guessed. She was staring into the fire.

“You had other things on your mind.” he said as he set the second half of the bird near the flames, “Call me Archer.”

“Archer.” she did not sound so enthusiastic. He watched her roll down the wet sleeves of his shirt. She dropped to her knees and starting emptying her sling. She had been fussing over mushrooms and apples, which she set to bake at the fire’s edge.

It was a strange thing to look across the fire and wonder if the Goddesses had truly decided to pen this script. And why they had chosen to tell  _ Madame Fanadi _ about it? She was pretty, certainly, and no doubt he could show her a good time in a few years, but her and  _ five _ kids? Was he still a traveling man in this future, or was he settled? He was just not the type for a proper job. He never had been. Never would be.

Her cheeks were flushed red when she sat back on her stump. He thought it was he heat of the fire until she blinked quickly and he saw a tear clinging to her blonde eyelash. It was her moment of weakness; he chose to strike. “So…” he asked as casually as he could, “Why are you so keen to leave?”

She bristled.

He pressed, “If I’m going to be taking you all the way to Arcadia, don’t I have a right to know?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“I… I just do. I’ll never get a chance to go.” He said nothing. It still irritated her; “What?”

“That’s a stolen horse.” he reminded her, “If you’re going to be running away, is it worth hanging over?”

“Get rid of the horse, then.”

“No.” Purlo refused, “He’s perfect and I am keeping him.”

She focusing her attention on the apples, pretending turning them required too much concentration to answer him. It was hardly even time to turn them. “It should be something more groundbreaking than a broken vase.”

Her voice was little more than a squeak, “It is.”

“If your father’s going to come after me with a pitchfork…”

He barely heard her, “He won’t.”

“Or if a fiance is going to accuse me of anything improper…”

“He won’t.”

“Or if one of those Bulblins is going to pursue us until the ends of the earth…”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

_ That _ he heard loud and clear, “ _ You killed someone!?” _

Ilia jumped. His reaction could have been more composed, more gentlemanly, but the very idea that a little doll like  _ her _ could kill someone was shocking. Who had it been? What had they done to drive her to such a thing? How had she managed it?

“No, No I’m asking you. You said you did not  _ want _ to kill me. Not that you  _ couldn’t _ or  _ wouldn’t _ kill me. Just that you’d rather not.”

“Oh—Oh, Ilia, is that why you’ve been so…?”

Ilia did not let him finish, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

He was not sure what she wanted to hear. He knew the answer, certainly, but what did she  _ need _ to hear to get a peaceful night’s sleep? He was too quiet for too long. It was her turn to grill him.

“Tell the truth. Don’t lie.”

That was what someone said when they expected bad news. Perhaps she was almost hoping for the worst answer he could give. He relaxed. She had not asked him where. Purlo had killed a man in Arcadia, but  _ Archer _ could have killed a man anywhere. “Yes... Yes, I have. It was not in cold blood, if that puts you at ease. I was not paid to do it.”

She did not look put at ease. She squirmed where she sat, her teeth taunting him at her lower lip, and those big green eyes looked from the fire to his face and settled there, “Do you think you could kill a Bulblin with ten minions working under him? Strong enough to push a fully loaded cart off a cliff, or ride up at you swinging a solid steel war hammer twice the size of your head with one hand?”

“... I should hope I don’t have to.”

“Then you’ll take me to Arcadia.”

He saw no flaw in her logic, “I will take you to Arcadia—but where in Arcadia?”

“Ilium. She lives in Ilium.”

He could have guessed that.  _ Ilia _ was not a common name in Hyrule. It was an Arcadian name, coming from the city of  _ Ilium _ . Doubtless, she was named by her dead mother, and she wanted to meet her mother’s grandmother.

“Well, that’s south. Very south. We’ve got all of Catalia, some of Labrynna, and most of Arcadia itself between her and us.”

“Oh…” she sounded worried.

“It is not a quick trip, to be sure. It will take us two months if the weather permits, a fortnight more if we are unlucky.”

He watched Ilia’s quick green eyes do the math. They would arrive by Nabura, the middle of winter, not like it mattered in Arcadia. She perked up, “So quick?”

“That quick.” he had hoped she would  _ not _ like that answer. He had to think of something else to deter her, “But it will not be an easy trip. Not everywhere we go will be as hospitable as Faron province. I won’t ask you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with...”

“You don’t mean  _ stealing _ .” Her eyes narrowed, and she was back to maligning his character, “Do you?”

How quick she was to jump at his throat! If she was going to be like that _the entire bloody trip to Arcadia,_ he would start each day eating broken glass. Despite what she seemed to think, he was capable of _actual seduction_. Some women even said he was quite good at it. Sometimes they even demanded a damn encore _._ Purlo reminded himself that the poor thing was hardly over fifteen, and had narrowly escaped a jealous Bulblin; he would be intolerant too, at least for a while. Once he was certain she was seventeen he would return to Ilium and pursue her with avengence. Even if she was married and he had gotten fat.

_ Especially _ if he had gotten fat.

He would get fat just to spite her.

But he had just met her. He was going to tell her that.

“Can you sing?”

“What?”

“I am past the age where I turn heads with my voice, but you? They’d sit for hours, and if you are any good, they will pay you. I can teach you songs. There will be time abundant between cities, and it will be an excellent way to teach you Catalian and Arcadian.”

“What if I can’t?”

He should not try so hard to scare her, “Perhaps you are good at holding  _ very _ still? You’re so small, I probably would not hit you when I throw knives.”

She shook her head, “I’ll try singing.”

He pretended he was disappointed. He rested his cheek on his hand, “Oh, but I would have bought you a pretty new dress—no one wants to watch knives get thrown at an urchin, after all.”

“I will sing.”

Purlo chuckled and looked down at the roasting meat. He would still buy her a dress. No one really wanted to watch a waif in rags sing, either, “After the cost of food and lodging, you will receive fifty percent, which you can spend on what you wish.”

She did not let him get her hopes up, “Okay.”

The bird had started to turn from a sickly white to a golden color. Purlo turned them around. They almost smelled done. He had fulfilled his most immediate promise. He had given her a proper meal. When he did not kill her in the night, she would trust him a little more, and she would trust him more tomorrow night than she did in the morning.

Ilia sniffed. His eyes flicked up, but he did not look too long. She was hugging herself again, a hand pressed to her mouth. He looked backed down. Ilia stifled a sob. It was a valiant effort, but failed. She covered her face with her hands. She did not see him staring. “Ilia…”

“No.”

He was not sure what she meant, so he shut his mouth and tested the pigeon at the thigh. The meat was cooked through, a little blackened, a little bland, but edible. He took the skewers from the ground and sat in the grass beside her. She dropped her hands, “I have to go back home.”

He did not argue, “Eat first.”

Ilia looked at the skewer of meat he offered her. She took it from his hand. She nibbled at, not out of some dignified need to be dainty, but because it was very difficult to tear into your meal when your main priority was crying your heart out. Purlo did not bother with elegance. He started to plan.

What did he know? She had been terrified, so it was likely she thought the Bulblins had come after her, or she suspected they planned too. It was entirely possible they  _ did _ . And it was entirely possible that whatever trickster and put  _ them _ together had put her pursuers even further away. They could be so far away that if they tried to return to Ordon to exact revenge, they would be traveling for months. So it was possible they would return to Ordon without incident. If that was the case, he would either set off alone, or he would take Ilia to her grandmother with her father’s blessing and a few more supplies for the road. Maybe even payment.

It was also possible that the Bulblin in question would be there waiting for them. What would they do then? Stand and fight? It was not in his nature and it was beyond her capability. If they ran, would he know to follow them to Arcadia, or would be be smart enough to hazard a guess that she would go to the city she was named for?

He tossed his skewer into the fire and helped himself to a baked apple. It was too hot to eat, and a little over done. He moved it all back to cool. Ilia reached for a mushroom. She started to make quick work of the food. Purlo let her take what she wanted.

He wondered how they were going to make their way back to Ordon when they had no clue where they were. He looked up. The highest point he saw was an oak tree. If he climbed that he would only be able to see trees, trees, and more trees.  _ Maybe _ he would be able to see across Hyrule field. He stood up. Ilia jumped, “Where are you going?”

He pointed to the tree. She turned to look, he answered, “To see where we are.”

“Are you sure you can?” she turned back to him and her eyebrows pinched. She did not look inspired or thrilled, just skeptical.

“I was an acrobat for two years.” he smiled. No need to lie about any of that, “And a deckhand for six months before coming here. I think I can climb a tree.”

She was not reassured. She went back to her food, worrying herself with the tree. Was she concerned for his safety? His status was improving by the second! He decided to drag the moment out, the longer she spent worrying about him the quicker she would get in the habit, and she was not done with her food, anyway. He wanted her to think she had someone capable looking out of her, capable  _ and _ hygenic. So while she ate, her eyes sliding to the tree with growing concern, he took the time to wash his face and hands and cool his throat with another mouthful of water. He shook his hands dry and blotted what was left on his pants.

Ilia tossed her used skewer on the fire. He stretched his arms. He rolled his shoulders. He heard Ilia hastily washing up in the water behind him. Eagerness to see the show? Concern for his well being? He stifled a chuckle as he marched to the tree. When he reached the base of the tree he stripped off his vest for good measure. This was the perfect excuse. She would never suspect a thing. He stretched his back. He might be able to waste away days in her care yet, but he would rather spend the idle weeks stoically nursing a broken bone, not whining and moaning over something so unromantic as a pulled muscle.

And, on the off chance she  _ liked _ scars and sinew, well...

He started to climb before she could realize what he was doing. It was more of a struggled when the branches were too thick for him to grab hold of, but the higher he climbed the younger they became until they they were starting to bow under his weight. He looked down. He could barely see the ground below; he could not see Ilia at all. He swept the branches out of the way and slowly rose to his feet on his perch.

Very predictably, he saw trees, a mile, maybe a quarter more, and the white-washed walls of Castletown. Purlo raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light. If they were in Faron, he should not have been able to see Castletown at all, and yet there she was, glowing white in the middle of the field. They were not in Faron. That was going to break Ilia’s heart.

If they were in Lanayru and looking at Castletown, the setting sun should be at his back. It was shining right in his face as it dipped behind white mountaintops. Snowpeak and Hebra range should have been closer, should have been  _ behind _ him. They were not in Lanayru.

All that was left was Eldin. Purlo looked northward, to his right. He saw mountains, not as high and white as the Hebra range across the field, these were old, weathered down and red. The tallest one was surrounded by smoke. Death mountain was less than a day away. They were in Eldin.

How had they come to Eldin?

Purlo frowned. Even if Ilia had not wanted to return to Ordon, they would have too. It was the best way to get to Lake Floria, which was the best way to get to Catalia. But how would he get her through Hyrule when everyone and their mother was out looking for him and his horse? If they cut across the field it would be five days of dodging every posse in the Kingdom with no money to bribe them and no supplies to help them. They could stick to the woods, where food was easier to find and Bulblins were not, but it would take them weeks to find a way to cross Kakariko gorge. Even then, Purlo started to suspect that the woods  _ themselves _ were somehow responsible for their new surroundings.  _ The Lost Woods _ were not a cautionary tale for nothing, apparently.

“What do you see?”

“A lovely view, Ilia!” he shouted down with a forced smile, “I’ll be down shortly. I know where we are.”

“Where?” Ilia demanded under him, “Where are we? Do you see Ordon at all?”

He should lie while he was up here. It would be easier to lie to her when he was not trapped by those eyes, “Yes, not but four hours. Less if we aren’t kind to the horse.”

“It’s not on fire?”

He would be in for it when she found out! “Not that I can see, Ilia.”

“You… you don’t see anyone riding towards us?”

He was dead! “Not a sign of them!”

He took careful notice of where Death Mountain and Kakariko were before he started to climb down. The closer he was to town when Ilia realized the truth, the better. She would not have so far to run to escape him, and he would be closer to a stiff drink. The less time they were in the field, the less time they would be wide open for attacks from Bulblins, Hylian soldiers, or anything else that could be thrown at them.

He stopped to catch his breath at the base of the tree. Ilia was quiet. She was either bubbling with excitement or worry. She was near tears again; it was probably relief. He did not want to stir the pot when Ordon was nowhere in sight. He put his vest back on.

He went back to the fire and picked up one of the last two baked apples. It was warm, edible, but he had burned his mouth on the last one so he could barely taste it. He was not even hungry; he just needed something to gag himself with. He kicked dirt over the flames. The wood sparked and crackled and the fire wilted, but did not go out, “We’ll be there after sundown. I do hope your father won’t be upset that I’ve ruined your dinner.”

She sounded cheerful. “He probably ate with my aunt and uncle when he knew I would not be there to cook for him.”

“I see.” How sharp were his knives? Would she want him to cut his own throat or would she want to do it herself? He whistled for Kolya and threw every ounce of his concentration on saddling the thing. He only paused when he heard her giggle.

The horse had gobbled up the last apple and the two remaining mushrooms. Was his stomach bottomless? He should not worry about it. It only ate grass and plants; those were cheap. Besides, it would not be his problem soon. Once Ilia realized she was in Kakariko, he would be dead. He hoped she picked something better than hanging.

“I can help you on if you need,” he offered when he was done. Ilia jumped. He bowed.

She laughed, “Yes, thank you.

He picked her up by the waist and set her in the saddle. He strapped his quiver across his chest and grabbed her torn shirt before climbing onto the horse himself. He pointed Kolya to Kakariko and spurred him forward. Ilia tilted like a metronome in front of him. She was too stiff. He had to hold her steady until she relaxed and grew comfortable working with the rocking of the horse instead of fighting against it. Purlo had more experience with rocking things than she did. Trapezes, cargo ships… Other people’s beds. He did not bring it up.

Purlo did not worry about light. He had been sleeping under the stars for the past week. The moon would be full tonight, and it would provide enough light for him to guide the horse around rocks and ledges. As the sky turned purple and the trees slowly tapered Purlo noticed Ilia had gotten  _ too _ good at rocking with the horse, or to dependent of his arms on either side of her. She was not bothering to right herself. Was she falling asleep?

“Ilia?”

“No. Don’t worry. I won’t fall asleep.” she yawned. Her hair tickled his neck and she relaxed deeper against his chest, “That’s the last thing I need… Don’t let me…”

She fell asleep.

He did not blame her. It had been a rough day for the poor thing; fear took a toll on the nerves, and once that fear was gone, what was left aside from calm, relief, and peace? Fear was the best thing  _ for _ sleep, really. He distracted himself with a little stargazing. It was darker than he expected, Death Mountain was a beacon, the lava inside was so hot it glowed, but he was sure the moon was supposed to be full and bright tonight.

But the moon was not full. The moon was not near full at all. The moon had gone  _ backwards _ .

Or  _ they _ had.

**Author's Note:**

> I have typed in "Tingle spinoff game characters" into google waaaaaaaaaaaaay to many times to be able to look at myself in the mirror anymore. Though I am pleased to include Segare in the fic, as opposed to Talon for the foil/antagonist for Purlo. He really is a better fit.
> 
> I was not able to elaborate on him much but... Eh. His day will come.


End file.
